


Veneration

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Choke Play, Choking, Consensual Sex, F/F, One Shot, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Season/Series 03, Smut, not another choking fic ocelot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 21:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11975232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Reveling in the success of her deadly machinations, Joan gloats in her own, private way. Deus ex Machina strikes again.





	Veneration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beccarc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccarc/gifts).



> All I can say is: ask and ye shall receive.

“My office. Now.”

So swiftly does the woman in black address her pupil that dear Vera Bennett hardly has the time to respond. Instead, her deputy – newly anointed by the inmates as Vinegar Tits – blinks. Her brow furrows, the allotted lines to mark her forehead creasing in the aftermath of thought.

Reveling in the success of her deadly machinations, Joan gloats in her own, private way. Deus ex Machina strikes again. She strides by her pupil. Long legs carry her far in a short period of time. As always, Vera struggles to catch up.

The door locks behind them.

“Do you consent?”

Such a firm question thrusts Vera into the headlight of Joan's penetrative stare. It's downright **voyeuristic**. Deputy Bennett, once so meek and shy, folds her arms behind her back. In a gesture of mock bravado, she puffs out her chest.

_How cute._

Malicious sarcasm taints the Governor's thoughts.

She isn't sure what she's subjecting herself to, but she embraces her fate.

“Yes, Guv'na... Yes.”

It sounds like a verbal contract and in part, it is.

“Good.”

Joan steps forward to seal the distance between them, her eyes drift up and down Vera's form in silent appreciation, as though she's appraising art rather than a human being.

“Loosen your tie,” she commands, ever the authoritarian presence in the room.

Fumbling fingers are quick to oblige. Vera discards the noxious presence that hangs taut around her throat. Button by button, she unfastens her blouse. The remains cling to her, akin to a scrap, similar to butterfly wings spread out and pretty. It shows a glimpse of her nude-colored bra.

Solemnly, Joan slides on the leather gloves. They flex and snap. The squelching sound sends a summer shudder down Vera's spine.

Predator stalks around prey, coming full circle. A sinister presence lingers behind the smaller woman. At the sensation, she tenses.

“W-wait.”

“What is it? Spit it out.”

Tone sharp, black eyes give away nothing. Obsidian carries a hungry glint that could haunt anyone.

“For these sort of things...” Vera stalls though it's not done intentionally. Nerves prohibit her from recollecting herself in a calm and concise manner. For a moment, Vinegar Tits is going, going (gone), replaced by the shy deputy Miss Ferguson first met. “You said it yourself: safe, sane, consensual. I, uhm, I want a safe word. In case things go too far.”

“Your choice, Vera. What will it be?”

Carefully, she deliberates.

“... Veneration,” Vera decides.

_Interesting._

The only control she has ever felt was in overdosing her mother. For this sacrifice, she relinquishes her newly hardened motif to swap it for her role as submissive yet again. Powerless, Vera allows for Joan to take charge as she always has: as she always will.

“Very well,” Joan concludes.

From behind, Joan's weight settles against her. Full breasts, despite the constraint of her uniform, press into Vera's back. The crook of her arm wraps around, capturing the smaller woman in a chokehold. Her free hand delivers a hearty slap to her pert ass.

“Where does your loyalty lie?”

_Say it._

From the orchestration, Vera jolts. A sharp gasp escapes her. Shakes her tiny body down to the core where she feels an ache, a throb, unlike anything she's ever felt before. She swallows. Lashes flutter, blue eyes focused on the insignia of the crown fixated to the glass of Ferguson's office.

“With you. Always with you,” Vera struggles to say.

It satisfies the wolf in a well-tailored person's suit. Joan spins around. Corners her rabbit-hearted prey into the wall that neighbours her diplomas. Pinned beneath her weight and such an impressive stature, Vera's admiring gaze wanders up to her venerated saint.

Joan smirks; it dismantles her.

Gloved fingers rest on both sides of her throat, keeping the little mouse grounded in place. Telltale bruises, purplish mottling, all vow to appear in the vacant light of the morning. In the night, their sins are covered up through this sordid exchange of goods and services.

The back of her hand ghosts over one side of Vera's neck. Akin to a puppet, she succumbs to these manipulations. A cat toys with her meal, holding her by the tail. To watch Vera struggle very nearly whets her appetite for destruction. Thumb and forefinger pinch her jawline. She wrenches that pretty, helpless face up to issue eye contact.

Experimentally, the v of Joan's hand settles against the column of Vera's exposed throat. The act, in itself, is far from vanilla. The palm acts as a barrier for the windpipe. Through the thick of harsh foreplay, Vera's recently hardened stare softens – she melts from such a particular focus.

In an unceremonious ritual, the hem of her skirt is pulled up. Wool settles above her pronounced hipbone. A dampness clings to the bridge of her panties. Wet and ready, teeth scrape her bottom lip. Vera moans faintly.

Assuming the role of voyeur, Joan watches every movement, every tick, and makes note of every sound she drawls out, as though she's a musician perfecting her art. Perhaps Vera is her instrument; they fit together well enough.

With the carotid arteries restricted, the oxygen-rich blood ceases its steady, rhythmic flow. She caresses Vera's tender, throbbing throat.

“Good girl,” she rasps aloud.

Heady breath is indicative of Joan's arousal. Now, her tie threatens to suffocate her. Beneath her calculated touch, the arteries sing. Squeeze, release. Release, squeeze.

Held for a few seconds, Ferguson relinquishes her touch.  
  
“Beg for it.”

Dazed, Vera rolls her head to the side.

“Mm?”

“ _Mm_ ,” Joan repeats with a mocking under-bite. “Would you rather be on your knees? I imagine so. You want to taste me, don't you?”

The architect of her undoing pushes aside her panties, threatening to ravish a frazzled mess. She pinches her clit, thumb and forefinger rubbing the hardened piece as though she's refining some strings for a cello. For a violin.

Vera gasps.

“ _Please_ ,” she whines, her nipples tightening. “I want you inside me, Guv'na. P-please!”

She's so responsive, her hips surging forward to meet that tantalizing, leather touch.

The desperate begging causes a tug down below on Joan's part. She's wet, but she'll never give Vera the satisfaction of knowing – of using this to her advantage. Instead, she grunts and thrusts two fingers inside without warning. In, out. In, out. The tempo picks up so that Vera's bouncing from the increased moment. She fucks her hard and fast, using the deliberate strength in her forearm to send Vera bouncing.

Again, she focuses on her touch.

Panting herself, Joan leans forward, her mouth brushing against her reddened ear. Breathing comes out as a labored expense. Her noises are downright feral despite the pleasure she derives in watching.

“ _Oh_ ,” Vera says, unable to finish any articulation whatsoever.

“What is it?” Joan sneers, her hand gliding up and down the extension of Vera's neck. For a proper response, she lets go.

“Let me come. I _need_ to; I **want** to.”

“Hush. You'll find your release when I say so.”

Her breathing's issued in labored, little pants. With flushed cheeks and ears, she makes for such a wanton display. Resisting temptation, Joan refrains from lifting her deputy up in the air by the neck and slamming her back against the desk in order to take her in a more primitive fashion.

Over time, the light pressure on her throat increases. On the verge of coming, the hand seizes hold of her tawny throat. With tears in her eyes, she looks at the woman responsible for her ruin. Vera doesn't cough Joan won't allow for that to happen. She's much too skilled in the pleasure game.  
“Now,” Joan growls against her, thumb working her clip with her fingers plunged deep inside.

Since her airflow is compromised, she feels detached from her body. It's a strange experience, attributed to a dream-like sequence. Euphoria washes over darling Vera. Rapture fills her veins. The heel of her palm digs into her clit, refusing to procure the delicious friction that promises to send her over the edge.

On the verge of unconsciousness, Ferguson halts her death-defying ministrations. Doe's eyes roll back. She squirms atop the Devil's spoke. Her orgasm ripples through her. Unable to scream, the sound falls short, akin to the fall of a tree when no one is there to witness the plummet.

Greedily, her cunt clenches around the fingers curled deep inside of her, buried to the hilt. At the beautiful sight, Joan sighs, rocking her hips against Vera. She released her vise-like grip on her tanned skin now turned pink from such gusto.

Unwinding, the crown of Vera's head falls against the glass pane. She looks up at a woman she's venerated – placed on a pedestal higher above the rest.

“You did well,” the Governor murmurs against her, equally hoarse.

Praise is necessary for a high-risk strategy. Without it, all of her hard work would come undone. As a reward, Joan bestows her with a reverent kiss to her temple: a promise of aftercare in the making.  
  


 


End file.
